


po22iible compliicatiion2

by jottingprosaist (jane_potter)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Deepthroating, Fingerfucking, Future Fic, Helmsman Sollux Captor, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jottingprosaist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your systems have almost been recalibrated to properly interpret the analog data. The pain and arousal get sharper and more overwhelming with every passing second. Oh, god, you know what the problem is.</p><p>You have approximately the most ridiculous case of gold globes in the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	po22iible compliicatiion2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aewin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/gifts).



Your name is LIVEWIRE BRIGANTI.

You are the flagship of the fleet of Her Imperial Reformation, and this means you control all the other ships. All of them.

You are—

Okay, actually, you don’t have time for this shit. You’re a little busy at the moment.

BRS: BRIGAN. –TI WILL. YOU PLEASE. RESPOND.  
BRS: WAITING. FOR YOUR. COPY.  
BRS: CAN YOU. CONFIRM. MESSAGE. RECEIVED?  
FLB: ii got iit RD.  
FLB: ii’m just a liitle bu2y, nothiing two worry about.  
BRS: COPY.  
BRS: WAIT PLEASE. ENCRYPT. --ION CHECK?  
FLB: channel’2 2tiill 2ecure.  
FLB: what’2 goiing on  
FLB: report.  
FLB: are you compromii2ed?  
FLB: ii’m dii2patchiing freeweel and gun2hark two your coordiinate2.  
BRS: NO DON’T.  
BRS: CANCEL. GUNSHIPS.  
BRS: PRIVATE. MESSAGE. NOT SHIP’S. BUSINESS.  
BRS: EMPRESS. REQUESTS. YOUR PER. –-SONAL. STATUS. UPDATE.  
FLB: ...  
FLB: 2eriiou2ly?  
BRS: SHE IS. CONCERNED. YOU ARE. “REELY. LAGGING.”  
FLB: ii cannot even expre22 how much thii2 ii2 2o not a per2onal channel.  
FLB: e2peciially not for que2tiion2 about non-maiintenance 2tatu2 update2.  
FLB: but yeah tell her everythiing’2 fiine 2tatu2 green.  
FLB: iit’2 ju2t a wetware bug.  
FLB: and frankly iit’2 even le22 pre22iing than the loyalii2t raiider2 fuckiing 2hiit up iin the range 2ector, whiich con2iidering ii'm eta +4.12 hour2 from ba2iically handiing them their a22e2 on a nutriitiion plateau ii2 not very pre22iing at all.  
BRS: COPY.  
BRS: EMPRESS. SAYS SHE’S. “SHOREY. TO PAN. --IC YOU.”  
FLB: eheheh 2orry two make you our go-between long-dii2tance datiing 2erviice ii know that2 not exactly what you 2iigned on for.  
BRS: YOU KNOW. I DON’T. MIND I’M. HAPPY. TO HELP.  
BRS: I SERVE. SHE WHO. SERVES US.  
BRS: IF I. MAY BE. SO CA. –-SUAL... (:K  
FLB: yeah ii hear you.  
FLB: but 2eriiou2ly the channel’2 for offiiciial bu2iine22 only.  
FLB: iif my priivate channel turn2 iinto another 2hiitty memo board for endle22 romance rambliing ii wiill blow every language ciircuiit iin my entiire 2weet a22 neural net.  
FLB: ii already have enough miindle22 chatter pa22iing through my maiil 2erver2 every day.  
BRS: COPY. OVER. AND OUT.

BATTLESHIP RaydiantStarfish [BRS] has disconnected from channel. BATTLESHIP RaydiantStarfish [BRS] has set network status to IN TRANSIT.

*

FLAGSHIP LivewireBriganti [FLB] has timed out of network.

*

For a ship with unparalleled processing capabilities, absolutely ridiculous memory banks and second-to-one psionic power amplifiers, you don’t get very much done in the next little while. Your resource allocation subroutines have basically turned to shit in the last four night cycles, which means a three millisecond lag in baseline response time—effectively nothing to your crew, but a jarring discord to you and your seventy-four xorobytes of brainspace.

The lag tears at you as you try to work through it. You’ve lost eighty-nine seconds in the current night cycle alone. You can’t shut off your awareness of the atomic clock hooked directly into your thinksponge.

You turn to restlessly redistributing server loads. This sends the Apiaristingers in your secondary and tertiary mainframes into a tizzy of bee-shooshing. It takes less than a thought and an irritable message to pre-empt their search for parasites or hive damage: it’s not the bees’ fault that things are sketchy.

Before any maintenance crews think to go poking around at your bioelectric amplifiers for cracked or melted circuits, you lock the doors to your primary mainframe block. There isn’t any damage; you already ran the diagnostics yourself. It’s not like you can’t remotely control one of the search cameras as well as any technician.

You take 2% of your reserve processing power and allocate it to tearing apart the code in some of your older subroutines. Shit. Shit. It’s all shit—better than anything most people would have the temerity to call “excellent,” but it’s yours and you know it’s shit. You must have still been on installation sedatives when you wrote this.

(Your seventy-four xerobytes of brainspace recall instantly that this was exactly the case. The biowire implants had still been raw in your recently-shackled wrists and ankles when you plunged into that particular coding bender—something, anything to distract you from the aural feedback of your wetware’s uncontrollable screaming. The Condesce hadn’t deigned to disconnect your analogue audio-in ports like you’d begged her to.)

You lag five more seconds and shove another 4% of your processer reserves at the backlogged workload and lose at least one small partition’s worth of yourself in the code and the distant soothing murmur of gurgling coolant tubes and crooning Apiaristingers.

*

FLAGSHIP LivewireBriganti [FLB] has connected to network.

*

FLAGSHIP LivewireBriganti [FLB] has timed out of network.

*

There’s bad feedback from one of your sensory inputs.  You initiate a reboot sequence and ignore it.

The mental static persists. Irritably, you flag it for maintenance.

General LevelerPeerless [GLP] began trolling Flagship LivewireBriganti [FLB]

GLP: ATTENTION LIVEWIRE, THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING.  
GLP: YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER ASSWIPE.

Part of your attention is automatically re-directed from the infinite minutiae of shipboard systems to the mail server. If you had to nominate a subroutine for Worst String of Data Ever, you would pick the Commanding Officer Alert notification.

The General coded it for you himself. Its sloppy syntax holds a special place in the blackest part of your pumpbiscuit.

With your attention no longer completely diverted from sensory inputs, the bad feedback becomes more than a peripheral annoyance. You have to shunt off a whole slew of tasks in order to free up the processing power it takes to identify the exact source of the feedback. All across the ship, various techies startle and swear as your half-complete tasks pop up on their screens. There’s nowhere else you can assign the work to: you are all out of processors to allocate, unless you feel like breaking into the final 30% of your reserves and triggering shipwide emergency alarms. It’s tempting, but not quite worth the automatic sedation that results from utilizing emergency reserves without the commanding officer’s access code.

Speaking of which.

GLP: HOLY FUCKING SHIT ON A STICK, LIVEWIRE. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR STEAMING CYBERTRONIC NOOK AND LOOK AT ME.  
GLP: LIVEWIRE, BRIDGE TO LIVEWIRE, ARE YOUR HAILING FREQUENCIES OPEN? BECAUSE THEY FUCKING SHOULD BE!  
GLP: ON ACCOUNT OF THE FACT THAT YOU’RE A STARSHIP, YOU SENSELESS WIGGLER. YOU’VE GOT BRAINS THE SIZE OF A METAPHORICAL GAS GIANT, AND YOU’VE GOT BRAINS TO RUN YOUR BRAINS.  
GLP: AND BACKUPS FOR YOUR BRAINS.  
GLP: AND BEES TO RUN YOUR FUCKING BACKUP BRAINS.  
GLP: BRIGANTI. OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES, YOU USELESS SACK OF GRUBSAUCE.  
GLP: YOU CAN’T TURN OFF LIKE THIS.  
GLP: YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME AGAIN.  
GLP: I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL CALL A MAINTENANCE TECHNUTRITIONIST INTO YOUR DANK LITTLE SINKHOLE OF A PRIVATE PERSONAL BLOCK IF YOU MAKE ME.  
GLP: FUCK  
GLP: fuck  
GLP: HELMSMAN!!!!

The slur stings like a ripperwasp, makes you mad as burning _hell_ , but you don’t have enough spare processing power to reply. You’ve spent the last god-knows how long deliberately tying your servers up in loops and knots of redundant code. (You actually _don’t_ know how long it’s been, because there’s a bypass on your connection to the atomic clock. When did that happen?)

Fuck that fucking static in the left sniff-hole with a biowire stapler. You’re going to find whatever malfunctioning sensor is producing it and blow it off the wall.

The signal quality is shit, and it takes you a long time to realize why (a lot longer than three milliseconds). It’s coming from your wetware. It’s… your skin?

Your face. Warmth—pressure—motion. And your ear: there’s audio input too.

GLP: YOU  
GLP: OH  
GLP: YOU ABSOLUTE ROTPANNED BULGEHEAD.

The General unplugs your analog audio-in wire and plugs it back in. The temporary override you installed vanishes when the connection re-sets.

“Sollux. Sollux, can you hear me now?”

You manage to croak something with your wetware despite the disorientation of trying to suddenly recalibrate your system for analog sensor input. Reorganizing the priorities of the one processor you’ve manage to free up helps; you’ve now got more of this partition’s attention on your wetware than your software.

Holy shit, you feel awful.

“Feel awful,” you slur.

The General’s thumb caresses your cheekbone again, the gentle touch at odds with his snarling voice. “Yeah, you moron, maybe that’s because you shoved your face directly up the withered remains of your wastechute and played a friendly game of Fuck Yourself Over Royally with the technology already rammed in there. Hold on. I’m going to emergency override your resource allocation.”

You whine, achy and ashamed. “Don’t tell the crew.”

The General strokes your face some more. “Shhh. Yellow override only. Nobody’ll be able to tell I had to get into the system.”

A yellow override won’t attract attention by instantly shutting down all non-essential processes, at least; it’ll just let the General access your task manager so that he can pick and choose what to kill. He knows how to break out of the power-sucking ATH~ loops you have running on your private servers, disconnected from the network, where none of the crew can see you chewing through your own limbs.

You let yourself relax—really relax, using your muscles and everything—and try to fit at least one whole major partition’s worth of attention back inside the physical helmsblock.

General Peerless is standing very close to you, chewing his lip as he types rapidly with one thumb on his palmhusk. His other hand is still on your face, petting gently, as though he doesn’t quite realize he’s still doing it. He’s in his full uniform, even though—you check your reinstated connection with the atomic clock—it’s halfway through his scheduled sleep cycle. The concealer carefully layered beneath his ember-red eyes doesn’t quite cover the ashy circles.

(Of all the highblood vanities—concealer. See if you let him set foot on Seasczar’s ship ever again, let alone spend three perigrees there.)

The processor load gets lighter and lighter, and you feel progressively worse as your ability to process analog data gets sharper. Everything hurts. The sensation of being too big for your skin isn’t just the mental distortion of trying to mesh your software and your wetware back together. You tug at the cables jacked into your spine just enough to tip your head forward and look down at yourself. On a wire and bones frame like yours, the bloat of your stomach is highly visible.

Your stomach and your groin, you realize. Oh man, is there ever a problem with your groin.

“LL,” you manage. “I—”

“Shut your mouth or I’ll punch myself directly in the ear canal,” he says calmly. He does know whose wellbeing you prioritize most on this ship. “Don’t talk. Don’t even start with me right now, Sollux, I swear to fucking god.”

You stretch down in your cradle of biowires, arms strung back and shoulder blades compressed like silicomb wafers. “You said my name,” you whisper, and close your teeth on the tip of his ear.

His ear pulls free of your fangs as he turns to stare directly up at you, fire banked low in his eyes—tired, grim. Grudgingly fond, after a moment. “Not over the system,” he reminds you.

As if you needed reminding. Of course you noticed the fact that he wouldn’t call you by your hatchname over the computer system, even in a private message. An exchange like that between two titled adults was the stuff of his stupid romance novels; of course he wouldn’t put it down in data. He knows just how much old information an exceptionally good hacker can pull from a system.

A sudden bolt of pain shoots through your abdomen. It’s not new, just momentarily more intense. “Fuck!” And immediately following that, almost without thought, is, “ _Karkat_.”

Karkat’s hand is pressing into your sternum immediately, pushing you back up to reduce the strain on your shoulders. Your whole body throbs with echoes of pain, all of it centred between your legs. Biowires slide wetly together. No—no, that’s your thighs.

Your systems have almost been recalibrated to properly interpret the analog data. The pain and arousal get sharper and more overwhelming with every passing second. Oh, god, you know what the problem is.

You have approximately the most ridiculous case of gold globes in the universe.

The worst—god, there’s so much wrong but probably the worst is the stabbing pain of your cramping seedflap. Your stupid overactive mutant shame globes have been mixing up slurry for days, filling your gene bladders bit by bit. Now every flex of your abdomen squeezes your bloated retention pouch and makes your seedflap tighten reflexively to hold everything in. Normally your flap is a fluttering little valve that you can tease for hours before letting it release, but right now it has been strained to the point of immobility and it has seized up and _it hates you_.

“You enormous fucking wreck,” Karkat says. He takes his hand away in order to remove his gloves, his hat, his jacket. He tosses them over on a control panel across the block. In the absence of his touch, you press your knees together harder, feeling fluid spreading across your skin beneath the self-cleaning cling of your suit faster than the living fabric can suction it away. “You should have called me days ago.”

“I was busy,” you protest.

“Not until you decided to distract yourself with a brainfuck instead of dealing with this like a functional adult,” he snaps.

“ _You_ were busy,” you snipe back, which is true. The rebels won’t wait for Her Reformation’s most famous General to pail the slurry out of his Piloteer’s mutant shame globes, no matter how torturous twelve-cycle gold globes are.

Karkat steps back in and starts running his hands up and down your thorax, kneading all the way up to the sore muscles in your shoulders and arms, so you don’t bother with any more words. You haven’t got the strength to fight him right now, and Karkat apparently doesn’t have the energy to bitch about your nebulous black-red-pale quadrant fuckery. His thumbs send gliding pressure around the biowires that stud your neck and shoulders, your metal-sheathed wrist stumps, checking the connections and the surrounding skin for rawness or infection. It’s good, and it sends tingles of sensation down an astonishing array of neglected nerve pathways, but it’s increasingly not what you _need_.

“I am in so much fucking pain right now that I can’t even,” you rasp, between embarrassing bouts of involuntary noise from your chirpbox, “and you’re screwing around with my installation.”

“Pain?” Karkat asks, but he’s moved to the fasteners of your suit and started to peel the fabric back all the same. Your damp skin tingles in the cool air—and wow, you hadn’t even noticed how high the ventilation was running. You must have seriously stressed the system. “Is that why you’re churring like a horny wiggler?”

Even the glancing pressure of his fingers against your abdomen as he undoes the suit farther down is enough to make you shudder and yelp. Your whole body tries to curl up like a grub, legs lifting at the amputated knee.

Karkat yanks the suit open faster. It finally comes away from your groin with a wet sticking sound, revealing the inflated bump of your gene bladders pressing out against your abdomen wall, the weeping slit of your bulge sheath and the jut of your bone bulge and the swollen tissues of your nook. Everything from the sheath down is slick with viscous yellow.

Unable to override the nerve impulses, you twist and shudder at the exposure to cool air. The reflexive contraction of your muscles makes your seedflap stutter, forcing a spurt of slurry out of your nook. That tiny release doesn’t alleviate the pressure at all; if anything, the pressure intensifies.

Your chirpbox is now running completely on autopilot, so you let out a long wail. There is no bypass for your runaway language circuits, just nerves and muscles and lungs that keep dragging in deep gasping breaths and forcing out noise.

Karkat kicks the accumulated biowires off of the deck between your legs more roughly than he should. You don’t give a shit. His callused brawler’s paws grip your legs at the metal cuff of each amputated knee and help you spread them farther, pushing aside the mass of biowire that has grown up around you and into your input/output ports.

One fuchsia tendril has grown up higher than it should, daring to anchor in the still-solid muscle of your thigh rather than the designated ports in the steel. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now Karkat grabs it and yanks sharply. The momentary jolt of uncomplicated pain from the tiny new bloody hole in your thigh helps to centre your brain again.

“Now, KK, now,” you grind out. “I need—I need it, KK, I need to come now.”

“Your bulges,” Karkat says. He thumbs the opening of your sheath, which is dilated and overflowing with slurry from within but hasn’t yet released your bulges. A hard shudder wracks your whole body as every desperately over-sensitized nerve screams.

You can feel your bulges, still coiled up inside you despite the fact that they’re full and throbbing, stretching out a part of you that was never meant to hold them while hard. You don’t know what’s worse—the pain of the stretch, or the crush, or the near-bursting pressure of the gene bladders that have swollen up too big to let your bulges unsheathe.

“They’ll come,” you gasp. “Fuck, KK, _pleathe_.”

 _Pleathe_. You need a patch for that stupid bug. But there’s no patch for a chronic overbite, you think hysterically.

“God, you’re far gone,” he mutters. Despite the faint tremor of his voice, he rubs his fingers efficiently through the slurry oozing down your inner thighs, slicking every digit.

It isn’t necessary. Your nook drools down his fingers the second he makes direct contact with the tender flesh. You moan loudly. High overhead, the electromagnetic suppression coil catches a sudden flare of psionic lightning from your horns and reels it safely away.

Karkat’s fingers probe you—his finger, just one. It hurts. You want it in you so bad, but it _hurts_ and you don’t know if you can, but _you_ _need it_.

Karkat looks up at you with his face compressed in a grimace. He’s trying not to look as upset as he is, but the hand he’s anxiously stroking your side with gives him away.

“Fuck, you’re…really swollen up. This is going to hurt.”

Now shaking with desperation, you gasp, “Do it.”

It’s a finger. It’s one fucking finger and it feels like it’s going to split you open. Holding your hips in place with one powerful hand on a bony hip, Karkat pushes into you. It’s not _actually_ going to tear you—you both know that—but holy _shit_ does it feel like it could. You scream without restraint—in pain, protest, _relief_ —some bastard mix of everything—and through the red/blue haze of tears you see him staring up at you, determined to endure everything right alongside you, his mouth a grim line as he hates himself more thoroughly than he has in years, probably.

Knuckle-deep, his finger sweeps across the front wall of your nook, searching. Your cramped nook trembles around it, muscles almost too stiff with swelling to clench. He homes in on the first globe he touches—not difficult to find, with how full they all are, protruding from the nook wall—and presses hard.

You scream again.

It takes less than five seconds of merciless rubbing before your nook gushes all over his hand. The biowire crackles and squishes with how hard you yank it from both ends, elbows and knees trying to snap together as you convulse through orgasm.

Stars burst behind your screwed-shut eyelids. For the first time in years, you actually _feel_ yourself flying.

Karkat lets you hang there in the aftermath, limp and wheezing. Gradually, you manage to stop gasping. A fresh pain in your left wrist tells you that you’ve accidentally torn out a few more strands of wire, but you don’t care. Part of the hideous coil of pain and tension in your groin has yanked loose. Everything still hurts, but it no longer feels like you’re being stabbed directly in the seedflap. You feel _so much better_ already.

You manage to pry open your eyelids and look down at Karkat again in a daze. His expression is uncertain, a little afraid. For you? Over one little orgasm?

Well, not little, actually. He’s got his uniform shirt rolled up to the elbow, but there’s still slurry on the cuff of it, shining in thick yellow trails all down his forearm like false veins.

You sneer sloppily. “C’mon, LL. Don’t tell me you’re done already.”

He sucks in a breath between his fangs. “Fuck you, assmunch,” he says decisively, shoulders settling back down into confident military lines. Crisis averted.

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before he starts fingering you again, knuckles squelching loudly against your nook’s dilated opening. He manages another finger this time, stretching out your swollen hole back to what it should be.

The second time you come, you can keep it together enough to watch your slurry gush out over Karkat’s hand. Some of it jets off his upturned palm and spatters the front of his shirt; most of it goes to the floor and dribbles through the drainage grate beneath the biowire setup. It goes all down your thighs, too, filthy as fuck. You groan deep in the back of your throat, relishing the obscene release of spreading wetness.

Bucket, what bucket? Fuck that noise. The edict of Voluntary Contribution was the best thing Feferi ever did. If you don’t count all the reform and hemequality and revolution shit, that is. Imperial license for anxiety-free kinky sex, never fearing that your concupiscent partners might abandon you for being a freaky pervert that didn’t want to use regulation standard Imperial pailing gear, hell fucking yes.

You press your dripping thighs together and shudder with pleasure as one last weak pulse of slurry spurts out between them. You can feel your retention pouch deflating a little more, relaxing out of its terrible stretch.

You’re barely over the peak of the orgasm when another intense jolt hits you. There’s a lance of agony, a crackling roar as your psionics lash out in reaction, and then a violent squirming twist inside you as your bulges come unknotted and unsheathe almost instantly, one right after the other. As you buck through the throbbing pseudo-orgasm of pain and relief, your bulges writhe and drool across your stomach. The arch of your bone bulge shelters your nook below, directing the bulge slurry running down your belly to drip along either side of your nook, or just straight over the edge and to the floor.

Karkat makes a noise of relief—him, as if _he_ was the one worried about the condition of your bulges.

“About fucking time,” he mutters. “Listen, I’m going to finish your nook before I get to those.”

You hiss at him. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“Do you want bulge slurry up your nook, you sloppy fucking mess? Because that’s what’s gonna happen if I let you come all over yourself and then go back to fingering you.”

Picking up on your mood, one of your bulges reaches out for him, straining as if to get at his nook through his uniform pants and their fancy buttons; the other one knots fretfully with itself, rubbing the cartilage ribs on the upper surface of it (not really bones, but close enough) over the sensitive underside of other loops. Both of them are dripping steadily, though you haven’t actually ejaculated yet. It wouldn’t take much, you’re sure, but—

Dammit, KK’s right. Get any of it up your nook and you’d have an enzymatic reaction to your own slurry that would shut your libido right off to prevent you from fertilizing yourself. Then you’d have to wait through at least four more hours of desperately needing to get off while simultaneously being physically unable to get aroused.

“Fuck, fine,” you snap, closer to desperation than the irritability that you intended. “Hurry up before they fall off.”

“Remember this next time you decide to put this off,” Karkat tells you. You lunge and snap your teeth at him, aiming for his ear again, but he casually blocks you with a perfectly pale hand to your forehead even as he pushes two fingers into your nook.

They’re thick and knuckly, too inflexible, nothing like the bulge your nook wants. But then again— _yeah_ , you think as Karkat grazes over another shame globe, _thick, thick is good_.

Pleasure shoots through your bulges, which flex and coil in reaction; your depository pouch contracts furiously. You almost come on the spot.

“Fffuck,” you gasp, “not that one.”

“You and your fucking mutant globes,” growls Karkat, tracing farther into your nook with excruciating delicacy. “Can’t even grow where they’re supposed to.

You wheeze a laugh. “I’ve just got… two many.”

He presses another spot. Your retention pouch gives a delicious flutter. “This one?”

“Yes.”

“And this one?”

“ _Yeth_.”

Karkat shifts closer in order to angle his wrist better. It’s really, really hard not to shove your hips forward and let your bulges grab his forearm, wrap around it to feel the muscle flex as he circles his fingers insistently over the two globes. You settle for squirming against his hand, which is less of a conscious decision and more of an exercise of all the restraint you have left.

Karkat swears and shoves your hips back against the support pillar. “Hold the fuck still!”

You do no such thing. Your nook squelches wetly against his palm.

His nails dig into the hip he’s holding. That’s when you notice how short they are, trimmed and filed almost completely away—nothing like the sharpened, polish-hardened claws a General is supposed to maintain. Karkat must have cut them for you.

You wonder how many of General Peerless’ crewmembers ended shift today nursing brand new rampant flushcrushes on his sex-kitten hands.

“Hold still or I’ll shove my whole fucking hand in your nook and fondle every single shame globe you have all at once.”

This time you don’t even try to control how your hips jerk forward. You want to ride his hand like a cavalreaper. “That’s… not exactly an effective deterrent, LL,” you pant. “You normally discipline your crew like that?”

Karkat pushes down so hard on your globes that you see stars. Over the noise of your shout, he says calmly, “I run my crew with a fist of fucking iron. I am a raging volcano that spews order and routine and good manners like magma raining down on a screaming populace that is helpless to resist how fucking strict I am. I don’t need to discipline them.”

Do you give a shit about shame anymore? No, no you do not. “Tell me.”

“About my disciplinary techniques?”

“Holy shit your meatbrain is even more pathetic than I thought, LL. About your hand!”

He pinches your hip. “You mean how I’m going to finger you until you gush the contents of your entire fucking circulatory system all over my hand without even the decency to ask for a bucket, like the perverted bulging bag of mutant slurrymarbles you are?”

Inside you, his fingers move in frustrating, arrhythmic patterns over your globes, going back and forth between pushing and circling so that the sensation builds and builds but doesn’t get too intense. It’s _good_ , but you can’t anticipate which touch is coming next and if he doesn’t pick a pattern—preferably one with even divisions—you’re going to head butt him right in the panfront.

Karkat’s mouth touches your neck. His teeth scrape across your jugular, never so much as threatening to clamp down, and even as blunt as his teeth are, the pity gesture is genuine. It’s also disgustingly sappy. You can’t stop yourself from quivering, head to toes, clenching around his fingers.

Tasks being processed on your hardware get shuffled pretty far down the priority list when you have this much attention on your wetware, but one of them pings you hard enough that you grant it brainspace: the pattern Karkat is fingerfucking into you is binary. He’s coding an orgasm into your nook. The message is cloying, sweeter than honey.

 _Disgustingly_ sappy.

“…and if you think I’m gonna stop once you’re done, you’re wrong. I’m gonna go until your nook wrings itself dry, and then I’ll make you come another time, just because I can.”

You huff. “Heh… two… more times?”

Karkat growls in your ear. The vibration of his rattlereeds against your shoulder sends a prickle down your wire-studded spine: feedback from the spaghetti code of your primal instincts.

“ _Four_ more times,” he promises.

That’s probably physically impossible, but it’s two twos, it’s perfect, and just the thought of being strung up, helpless and crying from overstimulation as Karkat wrecks your wetware with his entire fist planted deep in your nook like some biotech core stimulator, and—and a _fingertip_ wedged in the valve of your seedflap, holding you open and endlessly leaking in a brutally extended orgasm because your body’s been tricked into trying to gush slurry that _isn’t there to give_ —it’s—

“Good,” Karkat murmurs smugly into your ear, apparently impervious to the pain of your thighs clamping tightly around his hand as you swear and shake through climax, squirting slurry in hard spurts. “At ease, crewman.”

It’s blindingly intense and then it just _hurts_ ; you hurt and your vocal cords do their typically inferior wetware translation of all that pain into a wet gurgling noise. Karkat strokes the insides of your quivering nook insistently, unbearably, and _fuck_ , you _can’t, you’re going to die and he’s going to keep going_ , going, relentless and unaware that your twitching and shrilling means anything but pleasure until finally you manage to croak out, “ _Stop_.”

He flinches and stills immediately. You chirp in pain, your horribly sensitized nook still stretched too wide around his thick knuckles, and thank god that he understands this time. Teeth clenched, Karkat manages the necessary evil of withdrawing his fingers. Every stretch of your nook’s rim around his knuckles is agony.

Slurry drips down your thighs in hot gold gobs, but as long as there’s nothing touching your nook you don’t care. In the face of the pain from your overused nook, even your bulges have relaxed a little, two fat sticky coils twitching just faintly against your abdomen. You’re loose and empty and it’s not even pleasant, just _exhausting_.

Overstimulation rolls up over you in a staticky wave. Somewhere, the autopilot AI takes over your neural connection to the ship, blocking signal transmissions to and from your wetware, and you unmoor from the anchor of your processors and sort of float away.

Distantly, you feel Karkat running his hands along your thorax in long, soothing strokes, a counter-stimulation that you can focus on through the static. He knows better than to go straight for your cheek and overload you with red/pale whiplash. Instead, he paps your little rumblespheres and you tingle all over.

You—oh. You’re shaking really hard.

“Good, Sollux,” Karkat rasps. “You told me. Good.”

You don’t always tell him when it’s too much; you can’t even always admit it to yourself. Sometimes in your head it’s either ‘win because you’re just that fucking amazing’ or ‘fail like a useless waste of flesh,’ with no in between. Not being able to set healthy limits makes you kind of a shitty black lay, because it sets your partner up to push too far without realizing it. But you’re working on it, and Karkat knows it. (It sort of helps that these days you have programs to objectively calculate your wetware’s stress levels and brain chemistry and alert you before things get out of control.)

You. You just. Sometimes—

“You did so good. Shhh, shhhhh, shoosh-a-shhh.”

The cradle of biowires and support struts takes more of your weight than it usually does as you hang there limply and shudder and dry-sob into Karkat’s hair. He calls you a fuckhead and an insufferable wreck and rubs your shoulders until you get your shit back down to manageable levels.

It’s funny—you’re sort of ashamed for getting that overwhelmed, but not really, because if KK’s calling you useless then you can’t really be, what the fuck does he know. And, welp, when your brain calls you horrible names they somehow don’t have the same effect after Karkat’s already said them.

Fucking brains, how do they work.

Karkat stands all the way up on his tiptoes to bump panfronts with you, shooting for brusque and landing at intimate. “Status?”

Despite the pacifying power of his hands, you can’t get comfortable. Your gene bladders are still throbbing painfully. Everything is hot and sweaty. You are an awful combination of achy and sharply aroused, like your wetware’s saying _noooo_ while your software’s saying _all systems go_.

You swallow. “Green.”

“You’re almost done. You got a lot out that time.”

“KK, I can’t.” Your voice shakes. Fucking shoddy wetware. Any system with performance this unreliable ought to be recycled for carbon dust.

Karkat takes a deep breath. “You know I can’t just leave you like this. It’ll only get worse if we don’t finish.”

“I don’t want anything elthe in me.”

He pats your cheek. “Okay. I promise, I won’t. What else can I do?”

You take back control from the AI, gathering up stable connections to the ship. Once more, broadened awareness of circuits and pistons and footsteps grounds you against the raw ache and roil of your still-dripping body.

You can handle this.

“Do my bulges.”

“What’s your seedflap at?”

“A one.”

Karkat glares at you.

“A three,” you relent. Thirty percent capacity is still a lot when it comes to slurry, but you just—you can’t do it now, as nice as four consecutive orgasms are in theory. Goddamn wetware, always letting you down. “And my bulges are a fucking _ten_ , LL, so worry about them for a while, why don’t you.”

With the hand that’s not still sticky from your nook, he traces a finger around one of your spade-shaped bulgetips. Both bulges jerk like they’ve been electrocuted and rush to wrap around his entire hand. You gasp.

“A ten?” Karkat comments, idle amusement in his voice. It’s fucking infuriating and you know he knows it. “With the way you’ve been dripping all over the place? Look at my uniform, crewman—does it look like the contents of your depository bladder are still all inside your bulges? This shirt is practically a fucking piece of modern art.”

“So hang it on your wall,” you suggest breathlessly, starting to get back into the rhythm of things.

Your bulges squeeze his hand ruthlessly, twined in and around his obligingly spread fingers. You feel like you could arm wrestle Engineer E%imious with your bulges and win. You are so far beyond popping a wiggly that you’re popping an entire fucking horrorterror. You are—

Yes, okay, you’re dripping slurry all over Karkat’s shirt. But your depository pouch doesn’t have a mitral valve equivalent to your seedflap, because spraying your genes all over everything in hopes of getting some up some other troll’s nook is _supposed_ to be a wild and crazy free for all. It is basically not your fault at all and WOW _okay_ if Karkat wants to fondle your bulges like that then he deserves what he gets on his uniform.

“You’re depraved,” Karkat snaps, as your bulges flick slurry at his shirt with extra enthusiasm. The dull red of his blush goes all the way from his ears to his cheeks to the thin-skinned ‘stab here’ columns on his throat. “Don’t blame me when it gets in your nook.”

Before you can voice your protest, Karkat is sliding down your body, scraping his blunt fangs along the length of your thorax and abdomen as he goes. His knees hit the slurry-slick drainage grate and whoops, there go his formerly pristine white pants.

He licks your bulge.

Your other bulge punches him in the eye.

The expression on Karkat’s face is fucking priceless. He shuts his eyes and grinds his teeth, which is a combination between his ‘why the fuck do I even try when shit like this always happens’ expression and his ‘praying for the patience not to eviscerate this sorry sack of misbegotten fecal matter’ expression. You know both faces well from the newsfeeds of General Peerless’ mediaggrandization conferences. You are cackling too hard to apologize, though somehow you retain the ability to quickly check if the helmsblock’s security cameras caught that.

Three angles. Sweet. Save, backup, backup, and encrypt the shit out of it.

You wrestle for enough fine motor control to gently pet the side of Karkat’s face with your bulges. “Shhhh,” you croon at him, still hissing faint laughter even though every contraction of your diaphragm makes your gene bladders ache. Yellow slurry slicks his hair down flat.  His eyelid twitches violently. “Open up, LL.”

“You’re not nearly sorry enough for somebody in your position,” Karkat growls.

“I’m sorry you’re not licking my bulges yet.” It’s true, and the vibrating sex-harmonics below your voice tell him that.

You are also sorry that your compulsion to be a complete and utter bulgemunch sometimes interferes with your ability to get your bulges munched, but you aren’t about to admit that.

Grumbling under his breath, Karkat takes both your bulges in his fist and brings them to his mouth. Your instincts say _noooooo not the fangs_ but your libido says _yesss stick them in there_ , and when Karkat starts swirling his tongue around and between the tips of your bulges, sucking delicately, you roll your head back and say, “Yes, yes, yes.”

It takes a bit of stimulation, but after a minute or so of the tickle of Karkat’s tongue and the squeeze of his fingers, your swollen depository bladder finally manages to start contracting properly. The trickle of slurry from your bulges turns into a slow, steady pulse that overflows obscenely from Karkat’s mouth.

It’s nothing so much as _intense_ , pure sensation burning up your spine and overwhelming your thinkpan. You slide into a state of bliss just shy of static, soaring on the electric wave of data input. You let your bulges curl and thrust blindly, and Karkat lets them fuck deeper into his mouth (good friend, best pail—and holy shit it’s true but you’re never letting him hear you say that out loud ever).

There’s a loud click as Karkat’s shutplate seals off his chitinous windhole. You can feel the back of his mouth open up, and it sends electricity through your veins. He’s just _giving_ it to you—his mouth, his throat—so that you can fuck him as deep as you can physically go. His protein chute is not a nook, but one of your bulges makes its best damn effort to reach Karkat’s seedflap through it anyway. The other one tries to cram itself in alongside, though it manages nothing more than the tip down the narrow squeeze of Karkat’s throat. Still, you push until your eyes roll back in your head, because you _can_.

Karkat has to physically lean back to extract your bulge from his throat, making you whine pathetically in protest. He spits a mouthful of frothy slurry and takes a few gulping breaths, then goes down again, letting your bulges crawl gratefully back into his mouth. The cables in your spine strain as you arch your back and shove your hips up to meet him halfway.

He snorts half a laugh through his nose and then chokes on your slurry. It takes a few seconds of gagging before Karkat manages to seal his shutplate properly again. A froth of spit and slurry flecks your thighs.

He glares up at you with teary eyes as you try to cackle through the symphony of involuntary sex calls rising from your chirpbox. (The best you get is an especially wheezy fluting.)

GLP: TELL ME WHNE YOU’RE CLOS.  
GLP: ASSHOLE.

“Quit texting and suck my bulge like you mean it.”

He gives you the middle frond with both hands, then shoves one frond between your bulges. It squeezes up between the clenched coils, rubbing mercilessly across their sensitive inner surfaces. The calluses on his skin scrape hard enough to make you whine. You try to pail his mouth more roughly in retribution, but that backfires in a horribly awesome way when Karkat just fingerfucks your bulges even harder.

Distracted, you forget about his other hand. This is why you yelp in surprise when you feel something stroke your nook—not inside, not pushing, but just along the dilated opening of it, tracing circles that make you quiver. Up, around, and down, over and over again, until the trail of touch burns like fire. Tired as your nook is, you can feel your squirmy inner bits straining for his finger, desperate to detect any trace of foreign genetic material. Karkat doesn’t give it to you, just narrows his eyes and chirrs in a way that lets you know he’s laughing at you.

Damn your wetware, but it makes you need things that are so hard on you.

(Ooh, pailing the Empress and her head General on a regular basis, what a hardship.)

The contractions of your depository bladder start getting faster, sharper. You take a breath to warn Karkat, but he apparently senses your impending climax and pulls away. If the noise of your bulge sliding out of his throat is filthy, then the wet spatter of slurry pouring out of his mouth afterward is so absolutely obscene that it almost pushes you over the edge regardless of the loss of his mouth.

“Fffuck you.”

“Not yet,” Karkat rasps. He sounds—well, fucked.  Well fucked. “Get it all out first.”

“You just want to make me come dry,” you complain, probably not very convincingly. You can’t suppress the prickle of pleasure that goes down your spine at the thought.

“That was the idea, yeah.”

Smirking, he goes down on you again, this time a little less generously. He’s a tease, licking and sucking at nothing more than the flared tips of your bulges, letting them drip into the grate between his knees.

“Ffff— _fuck_ , KK, fuck, I—”

The fist holding your bulges back from his throat again is maddening. You can’t even get him to squeeze where you need it, at the root of your bulges, where a nook would clamp down on you once you were all the way up in somebody’s seedflap—and sure, you could come without that, but it’s more difficult. Which is the point. You know it’s better to empty out slow instead of jerking your bulge raw, but your wetware just can’t move beyond _holy shit I want to fill a pail now_. This is worse than KK’s spaghetti code, worse than contaminated hiveframes, and you just—you _hate_ this.

“ _Fuck_!”

Karkat laughs nastily and nips the tip of one bulge hard enough to jolt you _way_ out of the happy zone. Your bulges try to recoil in pain, but Karkat squeezes his fingers between the cartilage ribs and fists the thick bases almost hard enough to hurt even more. He forcibly withdraws the scant re-sheathed inches of your bulges, fist pumping and throat flexing wetly.

You can _feel_ yourself flip black for him, all the way over hard into solid pitch. That doesn’t happen often, but when Karkat’s taunting you like this, it’s impossible not to. He’s _toying_ with you and you want nothing more than to beat him at his own stupid game.

Orgasm denial, eh? Fine, you don’t even _want_ to come.

You shuffle one processor’s priorities and start running a couple of soothing virus scans in the background, plus a nicely convoluted message trace you’ve had backlogged for a while, which is enough to help you get a grip on yourself. Your wetware’s respiration evens out and your squawk blisters relax a bit.

“You look good down there, LL,” you drawl. He glares, gurgling something around his mouthful of bulge. “Wish you’d kept your jacket on.”

Karkat snorts, spits slurry. “So you could spill a pail all over it, you revolting sack of congealed jizz? No thanks.”

“Gonna get it wet anyway,” you smirk. “Seeing as how you can’t walk out the door with that shirt showing.”

He stiffens at the realization. The next sound out of his throat is a snarl. “Fuck you!”

“Eheheh. You missed your chance for that. Too bad.”

Karkat lets go of your bulge. You snarl back. Then he scrubs his hand off on a dry patch of shirt and grabs for his palmhusk.

GLP: OH, WOW, WHAT ARE THESE DOING RUNNING RIGHT NOW?

He kills the background programs.

Everything comes crashing back in like sunlight, blinding and intense enough to make you scream. Your whole body bucks and your bulges pump out a surge of slurry, depository pouch clenching right on the edge of orgasm. Dimly, you see Karkat sitting back on his heels and smirking as you writhe your way through it.

GLP: LIKE I SAID  
GLP: FUCK YOU.

Your bulges slap frantically at your thighs and belly, but with nothing for them to crawl into, you slowly shudder your way back from the edge, shaking and swearing.

“What are you at?”

“F-five.”

Karkat spreads his palm over your abdomen, pressing on the slight swell that remains. It makes you gasp and chirp, but nothing more; you’re no longer bursting. It just makes you more acutely aware of how much you want to stuff your bulges into something.

“I’m telling the truth!” Your bulges swipe at his chin and lips, trying to pry inside again. “Quit fondling your uselessness node and let me finish!”

“Uthelethneth,” he mocks.

“Sometime this sleep cycle, unless you want to go on shift again without any sopor. I mean, I can fly for sweeps without maintenance, but your sad little meatbrain isn’t exactly up to my standards.”

“If it’ll make you shut your stupid slavering dentition gaper,” he snaps, and yes, angry bulgesucking is a thing, it’s a good thing, like he’s determined to sublimate all his pissiness into effort. You pat him on the cheek with the bulge that he didn’t bother to cram into his mouth, managing a laugh that’s at least as shaky as it is mocking, but what the hell.

It’s only a few seconds before he rears back again, spitting his mouthful of slurry all over your belly. You skree as much at the sensation of slurry dripping down your stomach as at the fact that your bulges are cold and neglected again.

“Fuck, my knees are killing me.”

“Don’t be such a wiggler. I thought you were the big bad general, with your—”

Your voice stutters off when Karkat grabs the steel cuff on your amputated knee. His fingers curl inside the release latch just enough that you can feel them searing the hypersensitive skin there. “Can I—?”

“Yeah, yeah, go for it, _fuck_ —”

He’s already snapping the latch open before you finish. Pure sensation blazes through you as the biowires withdraw from the cuff’s input/output ports and electricity arcs across open air to exposed synapses for just a millisecond before the connection breaks completely. Karkat unlatches the other one before you can recover, and it splits you like a lightning-struck tree. You shriek.

You honestly don’t know which one of you it was that slung your thighs up on his shoulders, but suddenly there you are, gripping his head and arching your back to try to shove your nook into his face.

Karkat wraps both hands over your skinny thighs and surges to his feet. The movement folds you almost in half, compressing your gene bladders so tightly that they feel ripe and swollen all over again.

“Fuck, KK!”

The cables in your spine tauten when you arch harder against Karkat. Crackling feedback from the strained sockets makes your nerves twitch. You dangle from your installation, only half connected. It feels like he’s pried you out of your shell and spread open you raw and dripping to fuck, gasping for cold air. You can suddenly remember what wetware is really for, really _like_. You feel so _alive_.

One of Karkat’s hands slides over your glutes and up your back, checking each connection. Satisfied that the industrial-grade sockets are going to hold, he returns to digging his sex-short nails into your thighs as he fucks the channel between your twined bulges with his tongue.

“There, shit, there, don’t stop. Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t—fff—”

You let your wetware babble, skipping fragments of data in the struggle to process the flood of _need need need_. It’s desperation degradation stimulation, a cascade all centering on your bulges and your pouches squeeze-pump-gush accelerating toward overload. Even your seedflap is making itself known again, pulsing around nothing, begging for a bulgetip to clamp around, but there’s _nothing_. You’re so full you could scream and so empty it hurts.

“Put it in me—put your fucking bulge in me, KK, I swear to god, I’ll kill you, I need it, I—”

“The last thing you need is any more slurry inside you!” he snaps.

Your bulges writhe across his cheek, dripping in sharp pulses. “Put _something_ in me!”

Karkat’s hand dives for his pants. For one wild second, you think that’s it, he’s going to rip them open and stuff your nook down on his bulge just like that. Instead, he jams his hand into his underwear and rubs furiously for a desperate handful of moments before he yanks it back out, gasping. Two scarlet-drenched fingers shove into your nook.

Your feelers taste slurry and your whole nook contracts.

“Get it out,” he orders. “Get it all—”

And then he’s down again, head buried between your thighs like he’s starving. He swallows hard around one bulge, eyes screwed shut in concentration—oh god, his throat clutching tight and hot, the red-flushed column of it distended around your girth, that’s it, you’re going. You’re going over, convulsing, hips fucking hard against his face and fingers. Karkat pushes back against you, broad shoulders bearing up to fold you right the fuck in half, and you scream between gasps, everything swollen and wet pouring out of you in waves as you empty your bulges and your seedflap down Karkat’s throat, across his neck and chest.

Karkat goes down like a stone, still gripping your thighs in clawed hands. Your head falls back and lolls loosely in its cables as the helmsblock gives way to static again, as blank and warm as bees droning.

You drift.

You come back to stillness and near silence, to Karkat’s hand on your thigh and his cheek resting against your inner knee, all sweaty skin and ragged breath. He’s the grounding sink at your feet, equally exhausted but still holding on.

Well.

Karkat’s other hand is buried in his open pants, rubbing out what looks like the bitterest and most needy orgasm you’ve ever seen.

Almost equally exhausted.

“Are you fucking done yet?” Karkat rasps grouchily.

It takes a few tries to work your throat. “Looks like you’re not.”

“Fuck _off_ , Livewire.”

You twitch one amputated knee over his shoulder and he sags into it, smearing a kiss on your slurried skin even as his lip curls with irritation. He licks gold off his swollen mouth and moans just a little bit. Too tired to be properly irate, Karkat just stays kneeling there splay-legged at your metaphorical feet as he curses and fingers the sloppy mess of his nook until you can hear it slurping.

“All that slurry all over you—did you actually manage to get any of it inside yourself?”

Karkat groans. “Yes. No. Not e-fucking-nough.”

“Get some more.”

“Fuck you, I don’t need—”

“Wipe the fucking slurry off my bulge and get it into that needy gaper you call a nook or I’ll turn on the ablution-misters right now.”

He fists the slimy coils of your still-twitching bulges even as he spits, “ _Fuck_ you for a suppurating mutant nookstain on the diseased facial slab of the universal ditch-corpse, you fucking—fucking stupid— _hnggg_.”

The combination of your shuddering aftershock and Karkat’s stammer is pretty much the best thing. Karkat rolls his hips hard against his yellow-slicked hand, his nook probably clamping down in futile attempt to draw out more genetic material. The angle of his wrist looks shitty and unsatisfying but he just keeps going, hand stuffed down his pants.

“Eheheh. Couldn’t even wait to take off your pants. Fucking pathetic.”

Karkat buries his grimacing face against your knee, the nails of his free hand scraping over the steel cuff. “I hate you so much.”

“You’re never gonna get to wear that uniform again.”

“Fuck.”

“You’re not even going to be walking right tomorrow. Christ, LL, I know you’re basically a drooling mess for me, but it’s almost embarrassing watching you cram your entire fist up your nook like this.”

“ _Fuck_ —”

“Three fingers?”

“ _Trying_.”

“Make it four. Get yourself so loose you’ll never feel tight again for anything but my bulges.”

A strangled little sound forces itself out of Karkat’s throat. “Holy shit, I—fuck. Fuck. _Bucket_.”

You snigger nasally. “Better go get one, then. Like I give a shit.”

His head snaps up, eyes flickering from desperation to panic. His hips are already stuttering right on the edge of orgasm, point of no return, even as he’s yanking his hand out of his pants and shrieking, “I’m not fucking _joking_ you insufferable shitmonger, GIVE ME A FUCKING BUCKET OR I’LL—I— _arghhh_ ohmyjesusfucking god fuck fuck _fuck_. Fuck,” and Karkat shoves his fingers back into his squelching nook just in time to ride it out.

A huge red stain spreads from the crotch of his white pants. The noise he makes is somewhere between outrage and ecstasy and pure unadulterated shame.

“I _hate_ you,” Karkat grinds out, like he’s not still twitching helplessly on his own fingers. “I—fuck, I know your technutritionist keeps one close around here, it’s standard equipment for literally every pan-damaged wiggler with two stunted shame globes in the entire known universe, how can you not have a fucking _pail_ around?”

“Told her to take it away,” you say smugly. _For this exact reason_ , you don’t tell him. Karkat’s furiously flushing humiliated face is a thing of beauty. “Seriously, LL, when was the last time you saw me use one?”

“You’re disgusting. Oh my god. Fuck you.” His flush darkens suddenly. “Tell me you and Her Reformation—”

“She likes the splash.”

“OH MY GOD.”

Snickering to the sounds of Karkat’s outraged shouting and the blood pumping contentedly through your sated wetware, you recalibrate yourself for digital input and ease your attention back out of the helmsblock, into the rest of the system. Spreading out through the ship again feels like unwinding, like settling. You open your brainspace to a million sensory inputs, and then you can see and feel every response in the system. The signals are clear and blindingly fast once more. _Yes_.

Karkat is still ranting, now about his ruined uniform. He’s wet, rumpled, as exhausted and sore and sated as you are, snarling about nothing significant because he’s here and he _can_ , for once. He doesn’t have to be the General right now.

A flicker of thought sends a message through your servers to—you ruffle the data of your personnel files infinitesimally—one of your crew’s many Yeomen, an oliveblood with a flighty disposition and a burning loyalty toward General Peerless. Not the most dependable troll, or one of Karkat’s usual aides, but definitely the least likely to gossip in this instance. No record in any of her communications hints at dissatisfaction toward her General; however, there are definitely indications that she’d clam right up about anything that might reflect less than perfectly on him.

In the helmsblock, you keep one eye and a sliver of processing power on Karkat as he tries to wipe himself off with the remains of his shirt, still bitching companionably. Meanwhile, you follow Dorcaz with a series of cameras as she inputs the doorcodes that you gave her and gathers a new uniform from Karkat’s suite. She’s nervous but brutally quick and efficient.

You unlock the outer portal of your helmsblock in advance of her, and your wetware cackles at Karkat wincing in his soaked underwear, Karkat cursing your entire existence. You slip a virus into his chat client and send an order to the galley to deliver fresh caviar and greasy grubloaf to his respiteblock.

His callused fingers are gentle as he hooks your legs back into the biowire. The disconnected portions of your support system click back on and everything glides back up to full functionality.

Your bees are humming contentedly. Four decks away, a technutritionist is replacing a faulty glowbug. Karkat’s eyes are smudged with dark circles and his mouth is bruised, debauched.

You breathe and your engines purr and you fly.

*

FLAGSHIP LivewireBriganti [FLB] has connected to network.

*

HIR: so I )(ear you resolved your little wetware issue???  
HIR: 38P  
FLB: fuck ye2  
FLB: hell fuckiing ye2

\--FLAGSHIP LivewireBriganti [FLB] sent HerImperialReformation [HIR] the file “bulge2lapbull2eye.img”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Reddit AMA by DoubleDickDude, aka the guy with two penises. He mentioned that one of the "possible complications" of having two penises was producing such a large amount of seminal fluid that he physically _needed_ to ejaculate at least every two days.
> 
> Sorry not sorry.


End file.
